The old green Mansfield canoe glides silently through the bay its bow pointing toward the narrow ribbon of moonlight reflecting on the water. Reeds brush gently by the gunwales as we maneuver our way down the murky channel and into the cattails.
We can hear the raucous laughter of mallards from a pool deep in the swale grass behind the trees.
We whisper to one another “That’s Right!” at the same time. Whistling wings whiz by our heads as we turn into the small slot in the puckerbrush. The sides of the canoe squeak uncomfortably loudly against the ragged edges of the woody branches, like nails on a chalkboard.